I stare at your shoulder,
sometimes,
or your wrist
knuckles as you smoke
the breath I all but wish for
between my lips.
Odd looks riddle my face,
consigned to the murky space
over our ashtray
where so much inconvenience lurks.
I fail to attend to safer affairs,
considering too gravely
your feet
and their certain proximity to my own.
I stare at your ignored cigarette
smoldering to its end,
feeding a hasty column of smoke
into our shared air
in joyless anticipation of your last drag
and its final stubbing out.